I need to learn mindful eating. As opposed to mindless binging on crisps.

I am eliciting help from the folks at RealAge, who have incidentally estimated my real age to be 56. Or was it 58? Either way, it was the T.V’s fault.

RealAge experts offer the following spiritual pearl, in all likelihood nicked from a tome-like buddhist treatise entitled The Zen of the Raisin.

To teach yourself how to eat mindfully, start with a raisin. Take a deep, relaxing breath as you pick it up. Look at it for a few seconds. Smell it. Place it in your mouth and roll it around on your tongue. Feel the wrinkles. Now bite. Note the chewy, gritty texture — the sweet, fruity, astringent taste. Extract all the flavor before you swallow. That’s kind of the idea with mindful eating — to savor the look, smell, texture, and taste of every bite. And it works! It had a huge impact on curbing chronic binge eating in a recent study.

Sweet! Thank you RealAge. After an intimate sexual encounter with the solitary raisin, I’ve gone and scarfed the entire box.

Congrats on crossing 10,000 hits on your blog. Now I hope you will be gaining in confidence to start that BOOK me and the Viking have been waiting for.

Hugs n kisses,

Your proud Mamma

Two things must be said in this regard.

The Amma is a bit of a dog with a bone when it comes to fierce, relentless faith in her offspring’s capabilities. She more than compensates for all the amibition I lack:-) She also feigns deafness when I tell her repeatedly that there is no book in me, that there is no such goal. If she hasn’t heard it, it isn’t true:-)

This is why you need mothers – and why you love them when you’re all growed up.

I am awful at rolling out the big brass drum and marking these milestones, but somehow I’ve crossed two major blogging ones.

10,000 hits and my 50th post.

Peanuts and entirely insignificant compared to some of the major league bloggers I read. I don’t have to worry about blogger celebrity anytime soon and I’m really happy with the relative anonymity. Yet today, it is a big deal for several small reasons.

I started out with no ambition other than needing to write, wanting to stay sane and needing a space to vent and express myself. I wanted to remember the puppies’ childhood – to record the small and insignificant little moments that I would otherwise forget. Being read by someone was just an added bonus, but quite frankly, I didn’t expect to be read by anyone but close family and friends. Initially, I was appallingly shy about reaching out to other bloggers and delurking to comment.

The real joy of blogging, the fun, doesn’t really kick in till the interaction kicks in. I’ve had the time of my life getting to know these other amazing bloggers, cherishing their thoughts, relishing their play with words. I seek out their writing daily like a junkie craving a fix with his morning coffee. Hanging out virtually and cyber-chewing the fat has given me meaningful connections to other people, to their lives – connections to different perspectives.

So thank you, to the 10 of you (6 excluding my family? WAIL!) who maybe comprise most of my hits:-) Thanks for wanting to read what I have to say and actually stopping by to give me feedback. You make my day everyday. What? You didn’t get the memo about Moi – the feedback whore? Shame. I don’t really care about notching up a readership, but I care greatly for the personal e-mails you sometimes send and for letting me get to know you better. You have made it worthwhile. and GAWD..

Without intending to, I sound like I’m on a goddamn soapbox taking home an Oscar. Ok, an Emmy then. No? At least a Tony?

I saved my best for last – and its a Friendship Award from the lovely Era, who hosts an awesome blog and actually updates daily. Yes, you heard me. So go on over. You’ll stay warm in Florida and she’ll make you laugh.

Ta-daaaa.

The award says:

“These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated.”

Awwww. I melt into a big fat puddle is what.

Era, you rocked me with this one! She awarded me almost two weeks ago and I’ve felt like an ungrateful wretch for not posting it sooner. But looking at it now, its a perfect fit for this post! Thanks again, Era!

“Isn’t it about time he got his hair cut?” the Viking enquires gingerly.

Head of hair – exhibit A. Now tell me why this man is puzzled when I mete out the usual corporal punishment and thwack him soundly before snorting imperiously, “What nonsense!”

Yes, am v. classy like that.

I am a slave to these curls. Wispy, brown curls that are perfectly springy and soft as down. They are as nuts as the baby endowed with them and they live a life that is entirely their own with the discreet assistance of some Loreal curl cream. (Seriously people, what were the odds that I wouldn’t? Hopefully, the vanity entered his blood in utero.)

I’m the gluesniffer inhaling Curlytop – the mashed banana, strawberry yoghurt, baby shampoo scent of him and drowning happily, just a little.

These curls are all thats left of the baby before the full-blown toddler takes over with strong, stubby arms and legs, a confident stride, a startling smile and a mouth full of words masquerading as sentences.

So smitten am I that I am holding on for dear life, but unfortunately so is that cold he’s had for a month.

This misanthropic bastard has me beat.

The drive to the hairdressers had me feeling like Delilah preparing to shaft Samson.

Being at the hairdressers was a Rudaaliconvention. Armaan not only let out a mighty wail – he babbled furiously through his tears. I think I made out the part where he wailed, “You’re killing the mojo, yo.”

Je comprends, mon cheri.

And here’s what we got after the river of tears was mopped up and a good nights sleep was had. Luckily, the boy has the memory of a gnat.

Curlytop all gone. No longer the Child With Ambiguous Gender, but a little boy. A wicked little boy with short hair – shorn of the dancing curls of a girl. The mothers heart is just a wee bit achy.

Edited to add: The first commenter that encourages me to reactivate the uterus and have a girl will be my freshly-appointed surrogate mother. I kid you not. Hey, whats good enough for Sarah Jessica Parker is plenty good enough for me!

I needed a space where my thoughts would be kind to me, less agitated.

I have missed re-connecting with the loner in me who dies just a little whenever the extrovert takes over the oxygen supply.

I needed to be by the sea. I needed to be close to my element.

I’ve been fortunate to have almost always lived by the sea. Now I’m even more fortunate in that I live on the South west coast of Norway, which boasts of spectacular beaches.

In the ebb and flow of this tide lies my peace and solitude.

As soon as the kids are in bed, I’m out of the door. I’m restless and unable to settle on any song as I drive. I’m greedy with longing for the bracing cool air, the taste of salt on my lips, the feel of sand in my shoes.

Longing to tune my heart to the rhythm of the waves.

15 minutes and I’m here.

This particular picture captures the light at the beach at around 9 in the evening.

Perched on a dune, looking out at this glorious calm, I can breathe again. Great, huge lungfuls of air – as if air was to be rationed shortly. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore pulls me to the water’s edge and had it not been so cold, I would have begun to swim. I would have dived into the deep and relished the murky, pounding silence. I settle for splashing the sea water on my face and am delighted by the tingling of the skin, the salty dryness.

Facing the inexorable power of the sea; its potential for unfathomable violence; for subterranean calm, its easy to let go.

I can acknowledge that its not in my hands.

I can see the beauty of breathing from the pit of your being and releasing this invisible, yet heavy cloud of worry.

let me share with you the opening lines of one of my favourite poems by Thomas Hood:

I was tagged ages ago by Nat, the BFF and lately by Richa do the Around The World In 80 Clicks tag.

Five things I love about being a mother. But alas for you! I am an anarchist and I loathe precision and brevity.

Can you imagine the Sound of Music if Rodgers and Hammerstein just got to mention five favourite things?

You would have raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles, warm woollen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string and a helluva crappy song. No dogbites, bee stings or general gaeity.

But I ramble now. You were forewarned.

Right. Deep breath and here goes:

1. Tiny fingerprints, lip-prints, wet open-mouth prints on all glassy and semi-matt surfaces. A top reason not to dust or wash windows. I can spend ages staring, remembering funny faces meshed into glass and feel molten with love.

2. Bedtimes in a darkened room. The way soft hair tickles your nose when you bury your face into his neck to hum a lullaby. The mother of pearl eyelids. The heartbeats that make your heart stop. The slack-jawed sleep of the innocent child. Drool and milk on my t-shirt.

3. Scribbles on walls. The spot outside our bedroom door where Arvind scribbled our names as soon as he learnt to write. The way he drew me beside his bed because it made him feel I was always there. (I had a small head and a huge gut – he was amazingly accurate) The tiny red hearts drawn on the wall next to our bed. The use of Scotch Brite can be met with capital punishment in this home.

4. The banishment of self-indulgence. Had a bad day? Bad week at work? Sprained back? Cracked ribs? Well, pop an aspirin with your whisky, end the goddamn pity party and get a move on. You have a child to raise, a path to beat down, huge mistakes to make and no-one else to take the blame. (This is sucky, but I love how character building it is for a wuz like me who would gladly chuck it otherwise!)

5. The sheer physicality of it all. More than the marrow-squeezing hugs and sloppy kisses. Knowing their geography and topography by heart. The cuts, the moles, the scars, the ingrown nail, the dimples. Learning a new language – the hunch of dejected shoulders, the excited restless legs, fluttering hands, bursting hearts and eyes all welled-up or shining like black opals. The way the spoon is always just so.

6. The Dad. Only other human being as overwhelmingly in love with them as I am. 50-50 parenting partner since 2003. (Ok, often 75-25 in his favour if you will). You breed, you weep, you gnash a little, but suddenly there you are, knee-deep in it together, developing this code – this secret braille of adoration incomprehensible to anyone else. Yes, even the Mossad.

7. The Dad – Part 2. Gallows humour during the very worst of times. Deliveries from hell, a child’s operation, almost kicking the bucket post-partum second time round. We have never held each other so much or laughed as much. Being the Better to the other’s Worse. Life, screw your lemons. We’ve made Seinfeld episodes out of you each time.

8. Oh the humility. Next to Death, probably the best leveller in these parts. The kick in the teeth to all those bourgeoisie notions of self, of parenting and childrearing. Throwing out the books and playing it by the ear, the gut and occasionally an armhole. On a wing and a prayer, folks!

1. Is it redundant to say “trying to shed baby weight” when said baby is almost two? Does it smack of such sloth that I must revert to “widening girth indicative of expanding heart” or similiar comforting euphemism for blubber?

Can I hide behind or in a giant tub of ice-cream when I get there?

2. When son sees mother sobbing over random YouTube film clip, when will it be appropriate to answer honestly, “Its ok, darling. Don’t you worry. Mamma is just pre-menstrual.”